


The Lady of Undeath, Lamae Bal

by ElanorMotierre



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Excessive adjectives, F/F, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Necromancy, Plot, Shadowscale - Freeform, Vampires, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElanorMotierre/pseuds/ElanorMotierre
Summary: The Mother of Vampires has long been a shadow in Tamriel, known only in legend and hushed whispers among Arkay and Molag Bal's followers. Recently however, another Daughter of Coldharbour has become a close ally, drawing her out of the shadows to wage war on her enemies. Lamae Bal has aspirations to usurp the thrones of death for herself and usher in a new age. Serana Harkon meanwhile wishes for simple things: to devour Molag Bal's minions, progress her knowledge of necromancy, to save lives, and maybe woo Lamae Bal while she's at it.
Relationships: Serana x Lamae Bal
Kudos: 2





	The Lady of Undeath, Lamae Bal

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place about a decade after the events of Skyrim, The Dragonborn will not have a major role to play in this story but is now the High Queen of Skyrim despite being an Orc, and has even gained political power within the Empire, being debated as a strong candidate for Empress due to her Dragon Blood heritage. The Alessian Order and Cult of the Dragonborn being her strongest supporters.
> 
> I will be updating this and editing it at my own discretion, but expect me to go back and make changes to older chapters. My current work is mostly a rough draft and I'd like it to be a bit longer.
> 
> If you like my work, please check out my boyfriend's work as well, he has been working incredibly hard on it and it's a very fun read https://archiveofourown.org/works/29019162/chapters/71223822

Chapter 1: Arkay the God of Birth and Death

In the Colovian Highlands lies a large monastery to Arkay, God of Death, constructed to remember a vicious battle where members of the Aldmeri Dominion and Imperial Legion both suffered untold casualties. An old fort that had once housed the imperial legion and long before that, a nest of necromancers worshipping the profaned Mannimarco sat nearby; Fort Linchal. A dark and foreboding place where the dead come alive at night, it was necessary for the Priesthood of almighty Arkay to build an outpost here, for should they not keep vigil, the Worm Cult would surely return to darken these already shadowy lands once more. Nightly, the priesthood would don armor and mace, anointing themselves with holy oils, arming themselves with Arkay’s light to battle the disquieted souls here. An endless battle, but with Arkay’s blessing none of the priesthood had yet joined the dead, restless or still as the case may be.

“A shame,” one priestess thought to herself as she donned a crusader’s armor, “that such a lovely fort should be home to such miserable souls. It is so pretty in the light.” Indeed, the fort had a lovely view of distant Kvatch, sitting high atop it’s commanding position over the golden rolling hills. Nearby too was the outskirts of the great forest, blessed by kynareth herself, with trees taller than any forest, save for the bosmer’s homeland. Within a few day’s ride one could even visit the beautiful Gold Coast with its gentle waves and quiet shores...

“Sister Lucia!” A young man barged into the room, his eyes alight and his mouth agape, he was sweating profusely as he rushed into her room. “Arkay’s sake Brother Antonius! You scared the daylights out of me, can’t a woman have some peace and quiet-” “No time Sister, you must come at once,” he grinned like a madman and beckoned her to follow, “The dead sleep tonight! You must come and see!” He rushed out and Lucia followed in half of her ceremonial armor, a look of skepticism clear on her face. It was a jog to get to the fort, and as the sun set she expected Brother Antonius to be wrong and the souls to begin their attack, especially as they drew closer to the courtyard of Fort Linchal where the embittered souls would usually first awaken, but tonight the air was still and cool. It was so quiet as they neared what was once an unholy altar, years ago having been destroyed and purified by her mentor, and which now stood a proud marble memorial bearing Arkay’s blessings.

An old Argonian clad in simple robes stood in front of the memorial, his greying scales and yellowing horns a sign of his age. Cleans-The-Wounds was counting his prayer beads, reciting prayers to God of Death when the two young Imperials arrived. He opened his good eye at their approach but continued to pray, giving only a simple nod to his young apprentice Sister Lucia. He was the oldest member of their enclave, as well as their most powerful mage, commanding a mastery of Restoration few could match. The dead recoiled from his mere presence, so infused with life was his magicka that even the frenzied dead of this place hesitated to approach. Behind him sat the senior members of the order who took to guarding this area from the worst of the spirits and revenants that spilled from the interior of the fort itself when night came. A maturing Breton woman and a gentle giant of a Nord were having a very polite argument about the nature of this seeming quiet. At the youngest of the order’s approach, the Nord smiled warmly and greeted them. “Hail to you apprentices!” Their voice was loud and full of warmth as Lucia and Antonius approached, “Arkay’s blessing to you this day, I was just discussing with Matron Gwendolin-” The Breton cut in and playfully pushed the Nord at that, “Oh don’t you call me Matron you baby-faced oaf, how dare you, I’m barely ten years older than you!” Despite being dedicated to the order of Arkay, many of the younger members of this cloister speculated that Mara and Dibella favored these two, Lucia included. Sister Gwendolin had a smile on her face despite her protests to Brother Vladimar’s teasing. 

“We were just discussing if our rites had finally laid these souls to rest. Brother Vlad here seems to think that maybe tonight is the last night of they’re fighting, while I’m fairly certain that tonight just happens to be a night of special significance to this place, for the undead to simply be observing something and therefore not be active.” Gwen and Vlad were senior battlemages, Gwen preferring a Warhammer and protective spells, Vlad preferring the art of destruction and a mace, both clad in heavy plate enchanted by the wizened old Argonian himself. Others began to join them at the center of the fort, the rest of the cloister having been summoned from their patrols. It quickly turned into a heated debate with only Cleans-The-Wounds choosing not to join in. The younger members had the inclination to return to the chapel and have a small feast to celebrate, while the senior members were instead cautiously optimistic. “Look, why don’t we just do one more sweep of the fort before we call it a night” Gwendolin had finally relented and although it was up to Cleans-The-Wounds as the leader of this cloister to decide anything, he had long ago let Gwendolin and Vladimar run the day to day. She looked to him, the old Argonian finally putting his prayer beads in his pockets and turning to them, his single eye gazing at his brothers and sisters.

“You lot wouldn’t know Arkay’s blessings if it bit you in the backside, this is not his work and this will not be the last night. No matter, tonight they sleep. Come, let us regroup at the chapel and pray-” suddenly he clutched his head and fell to his knees, Lucia running toward him. It didn’t happen often, but the old man would sometimes have painful and vague visions of the near future, once she had a healthy skepticism, but when he had brought her back to Fort Linchal and she had witnessed the “Unending tide of battle that raged under the Necromancer’s Moon” she knew he was receiving visions from Arkay himself.

After a minute of his labored breathing Lucia helped him onto his feet, the old man clutched at his missing eye and announced what he had seen. “Quickly! Send word to Kvatch! Reinforcements are needed at once! Molag Bal sends a dread host to claim this site!” Everyone stared in disbelief, the color draining from their faces at such a proclamation. “I said move! Brother Gnaeus saddle your steed and ride, I need men-at-arms and I need them NOW!” The count of Kvatch was a pious and benevolent man, he would send whatever he could to aid the priesthood.

The other nineteen returned to the chapel that night, and Cleans-The-Wounds had announced another dreaded proclamation. Reinforcements wouldn’t arrive in time. “There was a betrayer in our ranks, I could not see his face, but I knew it was Gnaeus. I will scry to the mages in the Imperial City, and to the Count of Kvatch, but we must all make our peace now, for I do not know if we alone can hold back the tide that will be arrayed against us.” One acolyte, the most junior of the order clutched his prayer beads, he was a sweet boy, woefully unprepared for what was about to come. “How did you know Patron? Why would he do this to us?” Cleans-His-Wounds leveled a heavy gaze at the boy. “A Shadowscale always knows Acolyte”

Gnaeus cursed the old lizard as he rode away from Kvatch to rejoin with the champion, “Oblivion take that bastard, he will regret this. Damn him and Arkay, I will get such a lashing from my master for this.” He stopped at a small lake to fill his canteen and gazed at his reflection, pondering what he would say to Molag’s champion to have his life spared. The man was a monster, truly Molag’s most beloved for his sheer brutality that he shared with all indiscriminately. Gnaeus knew he’d be tortured for his failure, he even worried that he might be killed, but maybe if he did something big to weaken them now, his master would at least let him live. Or maybe he could kill the champion and take his place?

“Such brave ideas for such a scared little man, are you going to cry for me little boy?” A woman’s voice rang throughout the glade and the man drew his mace, searching frantically for its source. It was a deep feminine voice, with that unmistakable nordic twinge. The air began to chill, his horse bucked and neighed, running off into the forest, fear crawled up his spine. He heard the sound of ice forming and turned behind him, Gnaeus saw the lake freezing over, and a woman in a white flowing gown, with equally white and flowing hair, floating over the river.

“Are you afraid of me little one? You do not even know who I am and yet you quake in your boots.” Her mouth did not move, the voice was in his mind, and as she drew nearer he saw the dull crimson glow in her eyes. He did know who she was, once he saw her eyes, and all for the first time in a long time he remembered what it was to be afraid. Lamae Bal, the first vampire, was approaching. His knees gave out and he couldn’t breathe, the screeching of bats was raking against his mind. “A murderer, a rapist, a torturer and yet you are prey at the end of the day, you cower in fear like any mortal.” Her ivory feet entered his view as he tried desperately to breathe, the cold burning his lungs like fire. “P-Please Lady Lamae… I will be yours if you spare me” He shook and tried to kiss her feet as he begged for her life, but instead she grabbed him by his hair and held him like soggy cloth in front of her eyes. She wore a wolf’s grin, the coldness of her very presence caused his hot tears to steam away. “You will die tonight little defiler, alone and afraid like so many of your victims.” With a casual flick of her wrist she tossed him over twenty feet away and he hit the grass hard. Lamae Bal disappeared as a cloud of bats into the night sky, but he heard that deep and savage laughter of her’s before the last words he would ever hear. The voice was deep too, but where Lamae’s was the thick, cold voice of a strong matronly woman; this voice was sultry and warm, belonging to someone young. “Get up and run. I’ll give you a headstart.” He looked up for a brief moment and saw the same hungry red glow in her eyes, a beautiful nordic girl with raven hair. He did as he was told and knew even as he sprinted with all his might he wouldn’t be able to run fast enough, Gnaeus only hoped there was a cliff he could fling himself from.

Serana would not let him have such mercy, letting him have a headstart as promised, letting his fear consume him in a chase that she barely participated in. He dived off a small height, and found a swarm of bats carrying him back to the ledge, tossing him back and the tall muscular woman sauntering toward him. The glistening white fangs shone in the moonlight, his last sight before she drained him dry and left his flayed corpse strung up by his own entrails in a tree to greet the sun. Serana was not often one for pointless violence or excessive displays of aggression, the act of feeding she considered to be less of a demonstration of power or something to be exalted in; rather she considered it to be a biological function and a distraction than anything else, but when it came to the cults of Molag Bal, she took what little joy in the hunt she could. Much like a lazy cat she enjoyed it for a precious few minutes before the old vampire fell upon her prey.


End file.
